


harebells and blanket flowers

by braithwaites



Series: the hounds of hades [8]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Established Relationship, Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Original Character(s), Self-Esteem Issues, wholesome as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braithwaites/pseuds/braithwaites
Summary: In late spring, there wasn't a field for miles that wasn't touched by flowers.





	harebells and blanket flowers

In late spring, there wasn't a field for miles that wasn't touched by flowers.

Arthur Morgan stood on the side of the road – west of Valentine and north of Cumberland Falls, if he remembered the map right. He had a hastily drawn version of it in his journal, but hadn't pulled that out for a few miles yet. Grass that reached almost knee-high spread outward from where the gash of horse-stamped mud curled through the area, dotted with scraggly bushes and pine trees that stretched up into the sky.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching as Amaranth made an absolute feast for himself on the flowers and tender grasses on offer. There wasn't a horse for miles who could eat the way he did, but he was a big boy – a beautiful strawberry roan Ardennes – and he worked hard. Deserved his meals.

Not too far off from where he stood, Arthur could see a spill of tiny purple flowers at the foot of a cliff side. Against the craggy gray of the cliff and the thinner patches of pale green grass that grew through cracks in the stone, the color stood out like a bloom stuck in the brim of a lady's hat.

The desire to pluck up a handful of them reached clear across the length of the field and took Arthur by the scruff of his neck.

When he took that first rolling stride in the direction of the flower patch, Amaranth lifted his heavy head, a single curious eye poking out from beneath the long, loose hair of his mane.

“Just goin' over here,” Arthur told him, lifting a hand so his mount was certain there was nothing amiss. “You're welcome to follow if you want.”

He knew the horse couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying most of the time, but that didn't stop him from conversing with him. It was a habit born of watching Dutch with the Count and Edwin with Coffee, his pretty little black Arabian.

Amaranth didn't seem bothered by it. He didn't seem awed by it, either, though Arthur's feelings weren't hurt because of it.

Either way, the horse followed.

Amaranth's footfalls were easily three times as impressive as his own, even on the soft dirt and even softer grass. Both of them left a path through the field, something easily followed back to the road once they were done. Not that they were in any danger of getting lost, seeing as they were traversing flat land.

A chill still clung to the air, even in the beginning of May, but the direct light of the sun warmed his shoulders and back as they followed the gentle curve of the stream that led up to a much larger plunge basin at the bottom of the waterfall.

The water would be good for a swim, if it still wasn't so damn cold up in the mountains. It didn't seem like they'd ever lose their white caps, not even in the belly of summertime. The water that wept down into the valleys would be icy for some time yet.

Amaranth lagged behind for a while, meandering around the edge of the water. The long blonde hair that hung from his fetlocks dragged in the muddy bank, his hooves sinking into the same with every step.

Slowing down so his horse might catch up, Arthur watched as the creature leaned over and took a few mouthfuls of fresh mountain water, something to wash down the wagonload of grass he'd consumed. It wasn't exactly a beer, but Arthur couldn't blame him for wanting to stop for a moment.

He tipped the brim of his hat back to get a better look at the end of the stream, where the flowers clustered beside the rocky pool. They bordered each side of it like purple angels' wings.

They were close enough for Arthur to recognize the shape of them – down-turned bells the color of lilacs, standing in proud clusters of two or three. Their spines were stems so slender, you'd expect them to tip over.

Harebells.

Arthur pushed his hat back down, welcoming a bit of shade as he began to move again, with a sated Amaranth at his back.

There were more than a few miles between the falls and their quickly growing camp. The ride back would give him ample time to figure out a bunch of excuses. Or, rather... answers to the questions the others would pose about the haphazard bouquet of harebells he planned on bringing back to someone.

 _Just found 'em by the side of the road,_ he could tell them with a loose shrug of his shoulders.

 _You know harebells are edible?_ he could ask them before shoving a few of the flowers right into his mouth and chewing. _I was cravin' a snack and didn't have any on me_.

A double lie. There wasn't a day that Arthur Morgan left camp that there wasn't at least some oatcakes in his saddle bags.

Who was he kidding? He was bringing them back to Edwin, and short of just giving them to someone else in plain sight of everyone at the camp, they'd just make assumptions. Correct assumptions, but assumptions nonetheless.

It wasn't that Arthur had any reason to be ashamed of his attachment to the man. Shame wasn't what kept him quiet about their ties in the first place, just a sense of propriety. The word sat strangely in his head, like it didn't belong there, like it couldn't quiet settle into the saddle.

Propriety wasn't a word that belonged to him, just one someone else brought into his ears sometime over his thirty-six years. Probably Dutch. If anyone was quick to pull the trigger on making a good impression, it was him.

Spitting off to the side, Arthur tugged off his hat and smoothed a hand over his short hair. It clung to his scalp, tramped down like grass by his hat's brim. There was no way to salvage the style of it, so he returned his hat to its place and moved on.

Edwin was going to get that bunch of flowers.

Bees buzzed around the spray of flowers, their movements erratic. Excited, maybe, rather than the lazy sway of them in the depths of summer. Each of them shot off like a bat out of hell towards a cluster of pines not far off, barreling through the air in the direction of their hive. They liked those flowers just as much as he did, it seemed.

Rather than following Arthur into the patch of harebells, Amaranth stayed behind to explore the outer rim of the plunge basin, careful to keep most of his bulk on the steady rock rather than treading too close to the water.

“Don't worry 'bout me,” Arthur murmured to himself – and to the bees – as he waded through the flowers and tender spring grass. “I only intend to steal a few.”

He didn't mind the occasional sting from a bee, especially when they crossed paths due to his own initiative. Dutch swelled up like broken limb when he got stung, which spawned his visceral hate of the insects. He'd have sooner shot himself in the foot than tramped into a patch of wildflowers like that one.

Ignoring the bees was easily done, but he did take care to look for snakes, bobbing and weaving through the grasses to see what might have been crawling or slithering at their roots.

Luck was on his side that morning, though.

As Arthur's hands dove in to ease a few of the flowers out of the ground, Amaranth turned his head and attention over to what he was doing. The horse's ears pricked forward, and he hesitated for only a moment before trotting over, away from the craggy edge of the pool and towards the flowers again.

“You wanna try one?” Arthur asked, separating one of the stems from the rest he'd picked before holding it out to him.

Amaranth didn't sniff the flower, didn't inspect it any farther. He just ate it.

“Alright, then.” Chuckling under his breath, Arthur removed the knife from his belt and cut the roots from the flowers. The clumps of dirt and stem fell to the ground at his feet. “Glad you approve.”

The whinny Amaranth gave then was all the answer he needed, though the way the horse leaned forward as if going for the rest of the bouquet _really_ got the point across. Arthur nudged his muzzle away and stepped out of the patch of wildflowers.

Stuffing the harebells into one of his packs was a terrible idea. The last inept thing he needed to do was hand Edwin a bundle of crushed, depressing flowers.

Arthur held onto the flowers with one hand as he lifted one leg, his boot catching in the stiff leather and iron bar of the stirrup. Putting all of the strength he could into the hand not cradling the delicate stems of the flowers, he hoisted himself up onto the saddle with a grunt.

Amaranth shifted in place, his heavy hooves making a mess of the wildflowers as Arthur situated himself on his back.

Riding one-handed wasn't impossible, but riding one-handed while carrying delicate spring flowers wasn't something he had any experience in. Suddenly, as he settled on the saddle, Arthur felt a little ridiculous. He wasn't the sort of man who did this sort of thing; he was a warped echo of some other sort of gentleman, sitting high on his saddle with his stiff, tailored suit and a bouquet of roses in his hand.

Shaking that off wasn't as easy as shaking off something else. Those soft parts of himself were easy to pierce when he was the only one who knew where they were in the first place.

He shut his eyes and took a breath. The air was fresh, smelling of flowers and mountain water, smoke from a nearby camp, the clean animal scent of his horse.

The flowers were for Edwin. They weren't the color of his eyes, but that sort of romance had never been Arthur's strong suit. All he could give the man was everything he had, and to some people, even that wasn't worth having. Over the past few months, Edwin had proven time and again that he wasn't that sort of person.

Arthur was damned glad for that.

He kept the flowers close to his body as they rode back to the camp, careful that the wind wouldn't loosen the petals and leave them on the road at his back. They moved around the outskirts of Valentine rather than through it, keeping to themselves for the most part from the fields all the way to the camp that was waiting on them.

That morning, he left with a few jobs in mind. There were debts to collect for Strauss that were weighing down one of his saddlebags. There were mouths to feed, which explained the line of wild chickens thrown over Amaranth's back.

The flowers, though...

No one had asked for flowers.

Slowing to a stop beside one of the hitching posts, Arthur slid down from his horse, more aware of the harebells he carried than his own feet. But again, luck was on his side. He managed to keep from twisting his ankle or buckling a knee by sheer coincidence.

Karen was the first to notice him, which was when his luck ran out. Leaning out of the tent she shared with a few others, she let go of a loose whistle that almost sounded impressed.

“You look mighty fine toting around a bouquet, Mr. Morgan,” she called, one of her tiny hands held to her not-so-tiny mouth. With a dramatic downward turn of her lips, she nudged Tilly with her elbow. “Why's everybody else gettin' flowers, when I ain't got any in weeks?”

“Weeks?” Tilly threw her head back and laughed. “Lady, it's been years since the last time some man brought you flowers.”

Arthur straightened the brim of his hat again before nodding in their direction. He didn't have any reason to ask them questions, so he kept to himself. Though one did crop up at the back of his mind.

Who else had brought flowers through today? Karen implied that he hadn't been the first.

Maybe Dutch had scrounged together some roses for Miss Madelaine, or Charles bundled up something bright and pretty for the brunette everyone had seen him poking around once or twice up in Saint Denis.

Never in a million years would he have guessed the person bringing a bouquet through camp could have been Edwin himself.

But when Arthur arrived at the overhang and cot he called a home, there Edwin was, dirty boots on the grass and a cluster of flowers the color of sunshine held in both hands.

The moment their eyes met, Arthur's eyes creased in a smile that was as broad as it was surprised. He ducked his head, his free hand settling on top of his hat to keep it from falling off. Not two seconds later, he heard Edwin let go of a peal of delighted laughter.

“Arthur!” Edwin shouted, the laugh still carried in his name. “I swear... of all the days.”

Arthur felt a prickle of something up his back, something familiar that threatened to wipe that smile off of his face. Never before had anyone gifted him with flowers. Most of the time, people gave him necessities. They gave him grips or barrels for his guns. They gave him brushes for Amaranth, or bars of chocolate to pair with bottles of booze. But flowers? Never flowers.

The rush that hit him only made the constant waves of self-loathing a little louder. _You don't deserve something like that,_ those black thoughts swore. _Your hands are too rough. You'll bruise the petals and stems_.

Arthur's eyes fell to the harebells in his hand. They were intact, even after a long ride, with bright purple petals that weren't even a little smashed.

He swallowed hard.

Before he could open his mouth and apologize, the shadow the hat cast over Arthur's eyes lifted, replaced by sunlight and Edwin's face. The young man was made of sharp lines, his cheeks chiseled and broad, his nose straighter than any Arthur had ever seen on an outlaw over fifteen.

But his lips were soft, and his eyes were softer still, more the color of cornflower than the harebells.

“I can't believe you got me flowers,” Arthur murmured, his words brimming at his lips rather than getting any farther. They were meant for the two of them, and the camp was crowded even this early in the afternoon. “Let me get a look at them.”

Edwin lifted the bouquet so Arthur could see the details on the bright yellow petals. Down near the middle, the color deepened from yellow to orange and then into a rich red.

“Blanket flowers,” Arthur told him. “Didn't know they grew anywhere near here.”

“I saw 'em while I was hunting. Distracted me from my kill, but the doe was mighty skinny, anyway.” Edwin nodded in the direction of the bunch of harebells. “Those are pretty.” He shot him a grin that was almost too confident, but Arthur liked that about him. “Who'd you get 'em for?”

He wasn't in a place to tease, so rather than giving him some bullshit response, Arthur leaned forward and placed a tentative kiss at the corner of Edwin's mouth.

“They're for you,” Arthur said, just as hushed as before. “I got them for you.”

The smile on Edwin's lips softened in an instant. He knew better than most how to handle Arthur, and that was one of those times, when a tender hand was needed in order to keep him from pulling back hard on the reins.

Edwin returned the kiss, leaving one on the opposite corner of Arthur's slightly upturned lips. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem at all, Mr. Wyatt.”

Arthur gave him the flowers without another word before ducking into the shade of his tent, a handful of sunlight in his hand. Sunset wouldn't be for another few hours, but the blanket flowers would light up the night once the sun dipped down below the horizon.

He was sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> I admittedly don't know much about the language of flowers, but in my limited reading, I found that some common meanings for bluebells are **humility** and loyalty, while blanket flowers carry a meaning of, ‘Being with you gives me great joy.’ Like I mentioned, I could be very very wrong on this, but this is just a gift fic for my boyfriend, so don't put much stock in what i'm saying other than, "Oh my gosh, that's cute."


End file.
